Finding the Worth In It
by Binet-Simon Scale
Summary: Tommy has developed a nervous habit - wearing girl panties. When he can no longer rely on that he depends on alcohol. Then Adam finds out. ADOMMY.


The first time was an accident.

Her hair was black, but you could see the strawberry red roots growing in, and I love red heads, even more so red heads that tried to hide it. Her green eyes were heavily rimmed in a gaudy smoky eye, diluted with lust, hidden behind our combined puffs of warm breath. Skin rippled under my fingers, hips thrust up then back down, slow going until she sobbed – _begged –_ for more, for faster, for harder, for deeper. And my momma raised a gentlemen and no gentlemen refuses a lady and my dad didn't raise no fool so I hitch those long smooth legs up and don't even think of relenting until I hear the metal of the car hit the gravel lot below.

It's the hottest part of the year and the car windows are fogged. A pretty natural red-head is sprawled atop me, speechless, content, running manicured nails along the flat of my chest, and I'm looking for a way out. My cell's blue screen cast sharp shadows along the interior, I see stuffing poking through tears in the seats fabric, and think about fixing it. When I am famous, when everybody knows my name, when I can buy things to have them not because I need them, when I pick up the phone it's a band mate yelling, I don't think I've ever heard one of them talk, "Dude, where the fuck are you? It's, like, five minutes 'til curtain, asshole!"

There's a rush of limbs around us and I'm thankful she gets it. I don't love you but I want you, looking into her now-clear eyes and I see the same sentiment reflecting there. Don't fall in love with rock stars, her daddy must have told her, they're worthless, they're insecure, they're about to go up on that stage and never be good enough. She's out of the car first, fully dressed, whilst I am just in a shirt, mindlessly pulling on a pair of underwear and faded jeans. Guitar slung around my back I all but soar backstage not really caring if I am late or on time – it doesn't matter no one cares about the opening act. My band sucks, I suck, and you don't make careers off being lame and begging for shitty opening spots for slightly less than shitty bands.

When I'm escorted to my band mates I noticed something is off – it normally wouldn't bother me, currently my whole life is off kilter – but when that something that is off is in your pants you take notice. Discreetly, as my band mates fiddle with their instruments, I feigns tuning guitar strings whilst actually I unbuttons the top of my jeans and see stretched blue cotton with a little pink bow on the elastic. For a moment I panic just as the curtain rises reveling hundreds of faces and I see fake black hair, and imagine it red.

That night my band mates stare at me in awe – tonight I've played the best I have ever done – I wasn't afraid and it showed. My band mates worry because I'd been approached by some nameless man in a suite and left with a business card. The next day I'm gone to an address scrawled onto the back of a block of white paper and not even the fact that the lead guitar spot has been filled brings me down. What does crash my confidence is that I'm afraid, again, like, before, and before I was worthless and worthless people don't get picked to play in soon-to-be-famous bands, they get picked to be the opening act.

Someone calls my name warning me to be ready in five minutes I eye the blue panties in my guitar case. I highly doubt I'll be hired if it was discovered I am wearing women's underwear yet I've watched Idol and seen what a freak this Adam Lambert is and compared to Adam me wearing panties almost seems tamed.

The second time was no accident.

Then came the music videos and by that time I'd collected a few more panties – ones made of satin that could easily be hid under the skinny jean requirement. Before we're about to shoot I'll always use the bathroom and slip them on and directly after the shoots I'll use the same excuse and take them off – it becomes a joke between myself and my new band mates, "Tommy can't perform right, unless he jerks it, just like Adam can't perform right without feathers."

And I laughed, unoffended, because the truth is much worse than masturbating in a bathroom, when the joking stops and people want the truth I lie. It's an OCD thing. I have a small bladder. Adam looked so fantastic in those white jeans that I simply could not control myself – Adam asked me to stick with that one. I do, even when the press asked about the habit.

All the times after the second time weren't accidents either.

I think I've got a problem. I think maybe I am a freak. I look in the mirror and at first questions if this is some latent unease with my gender and I really want to be a girl now that my hair is long, nails painted, clothing fitted, near always wearing make-up, and wanting another guy sexually. I think about tearing up my man cards and watching Lifetime, but when I stare down at my boxers I can't help but think – maybe it's not different. No different than Adam's nail biting, Lisa's hair twirling, Monte's talking to himself, or Longineu's rhythmic tapping. It's all just to relive stress and I figure as long as it hurts nobody and no one's knows – it is a rather harmless habit.

The Glam Nation starts and after hearing of the laundry arrangements, I know I'm up the creek without a paddle. With custom checks, curious band mates, and having someone else doing the laundry, the panty collection is left at home out of fear of discovery. I have never been more afraid. When asked about it I'd reply instantly, "Nerves."

Too instantly and most everyone knows it's a lie, they just can't find a better reason so they accept mine. With no one there to keep me afloat I sink. The first few practices are shaky, something is off and everyone can feel it, but they can't place it and the practices intensify with everyone tense over why we don't sound as great. Adam especially looks defeated. If I don't want to ruin Adam's dream, drastic measures need to be taken.

Lisa went out shopping with Adam, the others are sleeping late and I find myself breaking and entering into Lisa's hotel room with an old credit card trick I shouldn't need to know. I sneak over to the large dressers lining the cream walls, with shaking hands pulling each drawer open a smidge until I find the one filled with what I need, grabbing a hand full I booked it back to my own room slamming the door shut violently. I sink to the floor feeling the material in my hands soothes my nerves; it doesn't stop the tears though.

The plundered panties work for awhile. Practices are great again, I am less jumpy and more relaxed, Adam smiles a lot more, they play in front of millions of screaming fans, I take my first paycheck and buy something useless I don't need, I live the perfect life. It doesn't last. My hips maybe smaller than average but in no way are they womanly and Lisa's panties are stretched, torn, and unraveling. I can't wear them anymore so I steal more, and when they become useless, the process repeats.

Missing panties isn't taken lightly when you're a celebrity and for Lisa's protection – "because panty stealing leaps to rape," when that was said I'd already promised to never do it again – regardless security was upped on her. And there is no safe way back into her room without getting caught. I burned all the useless panties in the attached bathroom, in the tub, and think, not for the first time that this is different than nail biting.

Practice suffers again, thankfully no one has figured out why and we're not playing any shows soon. It gives me time to find a new habit. I tried the ones that have worked for my friends; nail biting, hair twirling, tapping, talking to myself, even tried jacking off like everybody believes I do, but nothing quells the fear – the fear that I am not good enough to be out there with my friends, on stage, with thousands upon thousands of adoring fans. Desperation sets in, a show an hour away; from the corner of darting eyes I spot a bottle of generic alcohol. I take a swig, followed by another, and another, than another until my pink tongue is plundering the open top for the last drops.

When were called out to stage I am still afraid but am too drunk to know I am and that works just as well. It works just as well for the shows that follow and I figured the same rules apply – as long as no one knows and no one gets hurt – it is a harmless habit and much easier to access. Random bottles of alcohol are constantly floating around backstage, often left unattended, which is perfect because as long as no one knows it's harmless.

Perhaps not so harmless, at least not when you drink to the point where you're leaning towards the drunker side of tipsy, this isn't good. People are going to find out – are going to know. People are going to get hurt, my friends, my fans, my family – are going to get hurt. It isn't harmless anymore. It's different than nail biting, hair twirling, finger tapping, and self talking. Those things don't hurt people; those things are cute and laughable when the interviewers ask about them. Being an alcoholic isn't any of those, being an alcoholic is shameful, is pitied, is a bad role model, and is avoided in discussion except by those edgy interviewers.

Halfway through the show I think I have gotten away with it, my playing doesn't suffer, the guitar is as natural as breathing is to me; inebriation doesn't change that, only fear. Adam's been eyeing me a little more tonight than he has ever before, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Adam stalks towards me, this could be a very good or very bad thing, I can't decide. The lyrics break as Adam reaches me almost perfectly like it had been planned, however, the lips crashing onto mine were not in the rehearsals, yeah, I was drunk but you remember when Adam Lambert kisses you even at black-out level drunk.

As far as kisses go this was the best of my life – it was how first kisses were decorated to be – Adam's lips were sticky with gloss, a firm tug of hair guided me, it was fast and forceful with tongue and horribly over-exaggerated for the cameras to capture as much detail as possible. It was also over far too soon with Adam breathing in my ear, "You're drunk."

Every part of my body froze. Good thing I never stopped breathing, fingers never stopped moving.

Avoiding Adam wasn't an option at this point I was too attached to the taller man. I didn't want to let go yet knew once I played live and failed at it that I'd be let go. It was no secret that Adam was affectionate towards me, but Adam also had a dream a dream I had thought we could share; now the dream of sharing a dream became a nightmare. I didn't know which would be more humiliating: being fired, confronting Adam, or begging for my old band to take me back.

I didn't get a choice. Adam confronted me – cornered too put things more accurately – painted nails tapping against the wall beside my head, patiently, "Well?"

"You look very nice today, Adam." I – well, I didn't lie, just changed the subject.

"Oh, why, thank you!" Adam beamed, "I was a little worried about this shirt, though, maroon is a tricky color – got to get exactly the right shade or it just washes me out. You know what really washes you out?"

I sighed internally thinking I'd gotten away with it or, hopefully, Adam did forget. "What?"

"Alcohol," he chirped, "makes you so unglamorous which is – might I add, hard to do, Glitter Baby. Mind telling me why you've been hitting the beer before every show and every practice? And by 'mind' I really mean 'tell me or I will be forced to kiss the answer out of you'."

I may have still been drunk even without drinking. Adam was intoxicating, he smelled like sterling silver, and his strawberry red roots were barely peeking out.

"Okay,"

This time my lips crashed onto his – he didn't seem surprised, I didn't expect him too.

"I'mma make it better, Glitter Baby." Is muttered between desperate kisses, "Gonna fix you, mkay?"

That wicked tongue slithers down my neck, teeth nicking over veins, his nose traced the v of my shirt, hot breath fluttering over the rhythm coming from my chest.

Everything stopped. Nothing moved. Not one sound. Just flashes of life; my life. It was a miserable existence full of self hate, countless feelings of inadequacy and then suddenly – a beacon. Some inert force that blew an unsustainable light forth and Adam was just in it casually leaning on invisible walls with an easy smile, "You are worth it."

I was blathering like a child but Adam was still kissing, little pecks on eyelids, smoldering melt-you-in-your-Italian-leather-boots on lips, tender nibbles on shoulders and neck. With every meeting the insecurities shattered, and then shattered again, crumbling until Adam blew the dust into oblivion. Then, right when he had nearly sucked my soul through my heated skin, his voice broke the still silence with impassioned, hushed, whispers about everything I needed to hear throughout my lifetime. His voice teetered on desperate at times like he was trying to cram years worth of praise into those few moments.

Fingers scrapped at my belt buckle. I've never begged for anything as much as I did for this.

There was a flurry of clothing in our wake. My knees didn't even brush the bed's end before my back bounced against the springs, Adam hovers over my splayed form, and my mind seemed intent on focusing on vague points. The bob of his Adam's apple, the hesitance in his muscles, the sheen of his steel orbs reflecting blue lights, the way his pink lips twisted to repeat the words, "You're worth it."

I watched with belated breath as all hesitance slipped from him, his fingers shoving themselves under the mattress producing a bottle of lube after many curses, something about 'always being prepared' and a dopy grin. It was all so Adam-like that my body never tensed, not for the first, third, or fourth finger, and I squirmed under his curious gaze, studied him until curiosity morphed into such adoration that it bordered on awe.

Usually I would feel unworthy yet this time I couldn't muster such feelings. For the first time I felt worth it.

"I- I," have no clue what I am supposed to say? "- feel good enough, now."

"That's exactly what I was waiting to hear."

Adam gently rocked himself into my opening, ghosting long fingers over the peaks of my chest, encouragements feather-light drifting over me, incasing like a security blanket. A warmth enchanted me, everything around me seemed dull, blurred out of focus, everything Adam was heightened and in sharp contrast. His hips smacked against me with a thunderous clap, breaking the trance, I squeaked a line of profanities wrapping my legs around his waist to meet his thrusts with vigor.

Adam's hips rolled, mine bucked, he couldn't manage anything more than huffs of breath, I couldn't keep my mouth closed, he was slow and gentle caressing my body with those damn feather touches, I was hurried and rough my nails and teeth leaving a trail of damaged skin. His lips nibbled the curl of my ear, finally managing a semblance of words, a familiar phrase divided, "…worth it."

In a moment my whole body tightened and then spasmed Adam still rocked into me despite the flail of my arms colliding with his toned chest and legs coiled around his own. Then with a strangled sound and a shift of air I felt him cum his face adorably blank, mouth hinged open.

I wasn't much of a spooner but Adam made a nice fork or something to that effect.

"Tell me why."

Oddly enough it didn't feel embarrassing, in fact it felt freeing, the thought of getting everything off my chest. I thought there would be fear of Adam leaving, of waking up cold and alone again. However, now with Adam's thumb rubbing circles on my hip bone, a clean slate with someone who knew all of my secrets felt…right.

Finding my resolve, I began my story; "The first time was an accident."

_AN/_ It's kind of AUish but not like totally or to the point where I feel that it should be an AU…I just bent some things (like Tommy, over Adam's desk) but I did it for the sake of porn and I believe that sacrifices can be made for such a noble cause.


End file.
